


when this is blown over

by Flora_Obsidian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort, Comfort No Hurt, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 11:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Obsidian/pseuds/Flora_Obsidian
Summary: Some several hours after the world is supposed to have ended, and it’s quiet.(1.06 missing scene, that night spent at Crowley's, and much-needed rest.)





	when this is blown over

**Author's Note:**

> this show gave me one of the Softest romances ever and I'm never going to get over it
> 
> technically TV-canon, but you could probably read it as book-canon if you wanted. title taken from Queen’s “Love of my Life.” inspired by this tumblr post:
> 
> https://floraobsidian.tumblr.com/post/185438721767/gingersnapwolves-i-definitely-head-canon

Some several hours after the world is supposed to have ended, and it’s quiet.

The moon is bright. Crowley, dark clothing and snakeskin and glasses, blends into what shadows there are, which is how he prefers it to be. Aziraphale, in contrast, is like a beacon, blue eyes shining like mother of pearl, and the pale blond of his hair nearly silver. (Crowley invented purple prose, so he figures that he’s allowed to be poetic from time to time. Similes and metaphors are as far as he’s willing to let himself venture into literary devices, though, or he’ll begin to think about the ironies of love, and of longing for something he can’t have. Forbidden fruit, and the like.)

The wind is gentle, blowing a few leaves down the sidewalk, rustling the branches of the trees above them. Tadfield is asleep, and with luck, Crowley will be too in a few short hours. A week-long nap sounds incredibly appealing at the moment.

“It’s all worked out for the best, though.” Aziraphale sounds as though he’s trying to calm himself down, just as much as he’s trying to reassure Crowley. The world was supposed to end earlier today. This—them, side by side on a wooden bench, with a much-needed miracled bottle of wine, waiting for the bus—didn’t feel real. Didn’t feel possible. “Just imagine how awful it might have been if we’d been at all competent.”

Crowley takes in a breath he doesn’t need to answer with some witty retort. As one of the few formerly-celestial and hellish beings to possess any sort of imagination, then, he really does consider the statement, and lets all the air out in a shaky exhale.

“Point taken,” he answers, then takes a long drink, then changes the subject. “What’s that?”

Aziraphale passes him the burned scrap of paper he’d been fiddling with. Crowley reads it over. “It fell out of Agnes Nutter’s book,” he says.

They talk it over, and they pass the bottle back and forth. They return the Horsemen’s items to the International Delivery Service driver, who, presumably, will take them back to wherever said items need to be. It isn’t in their jurisdictions anymore. They keep passing the bottle between them until the bus finally rounds the corner. It says it’s traveling to Oxford, sure, but it won’t take much of a miracle to detour into London.

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop,” Aziraphale says, mostly to himself, and Crowley—isn’t nice. Or sentimental, or any of the other things he keeps reminding himself that he isn’t.

Except it’s been a Hell of a-- Heaven of a-- no, that sounds worse. A disgustingly long day. Exhaustingly long. Crowley is even worse off in Hell’s bad books, and Aziraphale isn’t in Heaven’s good books anymore, not after all of this. They’ve taken a public stance before both their sides and there isn’t any going back on it. Not anymore. He doesn’t need to _lie_ to himself anymore.

“…It burned down, remember?” he says, with a softness he’s never quite let himself show before. Not when it’s been real.

Aziraphale stares at him, blinking slowly. Looks away, lost, and the expression is so _wrong_ there that his next words come almost unbidden. Later, he’ll blame the alcohol.

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

It’s an olive branch, the offer of solid ground after all these days and nights of chaos. For a moment—though, as a demon, he isn’t supposed to do things like hope or pray or anything of the sort that requires _faith—_ but for a moment, he hopes. It looks, for a moment, like Aziraphale does too. He gazes at Crowley with something akin to longing.

“I don’t think my side would like that.”

They’ve been dancing around each other for so long now that he knows how the rest of the conversation goes, word for word. But this time is different. Aziraphale sounds regretful, resigned, and Crowley had hoped-not-hoped that maybe he could finally reach out to his friend, and Aziraphale would reach back.

“You don’t have a side anymore.” Aziraphale looks so, so lost. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

It isn’t an argument this time around. Aziraphale doesn’t contest the statement, and Crowley doesn’t leave. But neither of them say anything else as the bus pulls up, or as they climb on and pay the fare with a miracled handful of coins, or as Crowley takes the window seat, Aziraphale next to him, and closes his eyes behind his shades.

* * *

“Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah. Changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”

At the time, he hadn’t been able to dwell on the statement. There were far, far more pressing matters. World ending in a matter of hours. Agnes’ book. The location of the Antichrist. A distinct lack of a corporation, thus meaning that he couldn’t show himself to anyone able to help unless he wanted to do the whole countenance-of-lightning and do-not-be-afraid thing.

He hadn’t the time to think on Crowley’s words, or consider how drunk Crowley must have been to put himself in such a state. Hadn’t a moment to dwell over how the demon looked near tears, or the way his voice cracked at the end, or the way he stared like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“I—I’m so sorry to hear it. Listen--”

More pressing matters, obviously.

It’s now, sitting in a rattling old bus, in an uncomfortable seat, half a bottle to tipsy, where Aziraphale considers the possibility that he’s just a little bit of a fool.

He’s _fond_ of Crowley, and Heaven help him, he always has been. It took one fateful evening during the London Blitz for him to admit that to himself, and now it seems it’s taken the end of the world for him to think any further about it. He’s fond of Crowley. Crowley is his _friend_. Crowley is one of the few constants in a rather hectic six thousand years.

Crowley is dozing, head against the window, glasses starting to slide off of his nose. He’s drawn, pale. Every now and again, when they pass a streetlight, the red-brown of his hair is set aglow. It’s why they’re taking the bus; stopping time, even for a heartbeat, even for only a select few, is no small miracle, and between that and whatever he had done to the Bentley to get it to Tadfield, the demon had been swaying on his feet. Otherwise they might have flown and been done with the whole matter.

Aziraphale watches him—fondly, yes. His words still linger: _you don’t have a side_. He’d been right. They’re on their _own_ side, and they have been for longer than Aziraphale ever cared to consider. He’s parted ways with Heaven, set adrift. He clings to the old rules and boundaries for some modicum of stability, but…

_You don’t have a side. Neither of us do._

…nothing holding him back, not anymore. Nothing holding _either_ of them back, though he can see now that Crowley would have gladly given Hell the middle finger if Aziraphale would have only come with him.

He’d just been so frightened. Crowley is a constant of six thousand years, and Aziraphale can’t imagine a world without him. It’s why he’d refused to give him the holy water, why he’d tried to keep his distance. For his own safety, but more importantly, for _Crowley’s_ safety. Before, if anyone had found out, there would be—well. There would have been Hell to pay, quite literally.

_I lost my best friend._

That was him. Crowley had been talking about _him_.

It’s a realization that, along with all the other thoughts whirling around his head, Aziraphale mulls over for the remainder of their journey, from Tadfield, down a strangely smoking M-25 into London, all the way to the moment where he realizes Crowley’s stop is two away and the demon is still asleep against the window. His glasses are at the very tip of his nose. When Aziraphale nudges him awake, he gets a rare glimpse of Crowley’s eyes, bleary with sleep, pale yellow.

“Two stops left, my dear,” he says gently.

Crowley grunts, yawns so widely that his jaw unhinges with a crack, and fumbles the glasses back up to their regular place. “Slept the whole way?”

“You’ve had a rather rough day of it,” Aziraphale replies, a mild understatement. “Ah… Crowley.”

“Mm?”

“I would like. To stay at yours, I mean. If… if that’s all right.”

Crowley stares at him, and Aziraphale wishes he hadn’t pushed his shades back up, so that he might be able to gather what the other was thinking—but he speaks, and his voice clues him in well enough. It’s that same soft tone from the bus stop. That same gentle voice he’s never heard before.

“Of course that’s all right. I offered, didn’t I?”

“Well—yes. But I didn’t want to presume.”

The bus pulls up near where Crowley’s London flat is, still reading _Oxford_ on the front, though the bus driver seems not to notice anything out of the ordinary. The pair get out; Crowley tosses the now empty wine bottle, and Aziraphale miracles it into nothing before it can shatter on the ground.

He means to simply follow Crowley up the stairs—he’s been to Crowley’s apartment before, of course, though he much prefers his bookshop instead of the stark minimalism; the greenery is lovely, but that ridiculous statue in the dining room makes it hard to take anything there seriously; and anyhow, Crowley is the host here and should take the lead—but about halfway up the demon sags against the railing. He’s moving again before Aziraphale can say anything, but the fact that he paused at all is cause enough for concern. Their ilk simply don’t get tired, though they can sleep if they want to (point in case: Crowley’s fondness for naps of an indeterminate length).

He quickens his pace, taking a two steps at a time until he’s at Crowley’s side, and before he can start to question himself Aziraphale puts an arm around his waist. Crowley makes a movement like he’s trying to pull away while leaning into the support simultaneously.

“I’m _fine_ , angel.”

“You’re lying, actually.”

“So?”

“So—so, I’m sorry.”

“…What?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeats, in something close to a whisper. Crowley is staring at him, incredulous. _I lost my best friend. We’re on our own side. We can go away together._ “For a great many things. And I plan to make it up to you, later, because—because you deserve that. But for now, just… let me help you?”

Crowley has helped him time and again over the centuries. Aziraphale has helped in return, but he never truly met the other halfway.

That can change, now.

After a second that might have well lasted forever, Crowley leans into him, lets Aziraphale take some of his weight. Despite handful of centimeters’ height he has on Aziraphale, he’s slumped over, and he turns his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“We nearly died today, angel,” he says, his voice now muffled. “Would’ve lost you twice.”

“Well—if I was going to go, I would have been proud to go standing next to you.” He finds it suddenly difficult to speak, and Crowley holds onto him a little tighter, twisting his fingers into Aziraphale’s coat. “But we didn’t. Both still here. Now get your legs back underneath you, and we can continue being emotional somewhere that isn’t in a stairwell, mm?”

“Isn’t like I couldn’t just vaporize anyone who walked in on us,” Crowley mumbles, but he’s still leaning on Aziraphale, nearly too tired to walk on his own, and it’s more than likely he’s just saying it for appearance’s sake. They make their way up the rest of the stairs, and into the apartment with a vaguely waved hand at the door, the locks clicking open; they walk past that (bizarre, _ridiculous_ ) statue and the room full of greenery that falls far, far short of Eden, six thousand years lost to them both.

Crowley doesn’t let go of him. Doesn’t seem to want to. Aziraphale doesn’t want to either. They stand in the dim-lit room and cling tight to one another as if the world is still shaking itself apart underneath them.

“Stay with me,” Crowley whispers, so quiet that Aziraphale thinks he might have imagined it, if he was the sort prone to flights of fancy.

“What?” he says, though, because he still doesn’t understand. Not quite.

“Stay… with me.”

The second time over it sounds as though Crowley is forcing the words out between his teeth, tell-tale nervous hiss through the first word, the way his fingers curl tighter into Aziraphale’s jacket. He sounds nervous and reluctant and desperate all at once, wrapped into a single phrase, all the things that he never associates with Crowley and hasn’t once in six thousand years.

_You go too fast for me._

Hasn’t Crowley always been reaching out to him? And Aziraphale has always, always been too worried of the consequences to meet him there, to offer a hand in return—worried over the repercussions for himself, ostensibly, but in the end it’s more for Crowley’s safety than anything else. _I lost my best friend—_ and really, they don’t have anybody else aside from one another. Just the two of them, and Crowley, reaching out, reaching out. His friend.

“I would be… very glad to.”

Aziraphale reaches up to pry away one of Crowley’s hands from his coat; he can iron the wrinkles out later, or just miracle them away if he so chooses, but the condition of his coat isn’t the point here. He laces their fingers together, marveling at how well it seems to fit, how it feels like a benediction. Crowley’s breath hitches. His friend squeezes his hand back and leans in, even closer still.

“…Took us until the end of the world to get our shit together.”

“And the world didn’t end, so we’ve all the time we could ask for to sort things out.”

Crowley pulls him along, stumbling like he’s far more drunk than he is to tipsy, refusing to let go now that Aziraphale has offered his hand in return. Aziraphale wants to stand next to him again, to keep him upright, to _hold_ him, but Crowley is moving with purpose now and doesn’t seem as though he’s going to slow down for much of anything short of a second Armageddon, and even then, only perhaps. He tips sideways, letting gravity do the work for him, spilling to a pile of limbs on a bed that looks like a marshmallow with the sheer number of pillows and blankets piled onto it—decadence, but Aziraphale really isn’t surprised—and immediately starts burrowing.

He isn’t one for sleeping. He’s never much seen the appeal to it, and there are far better things he could be doing with his time—there are books and manuscripts to study, new restaurants around the world to try, new examples of humanity he has yet to see.

But his books are gone. And he’s made a promise.

Aziraphale waves his free hand, changing his clothes into sleepwear with a thought, and he gives Crowley’s hand a brief squeeze before pulling away so he can walk around to the other side of the bed. Even in the bedroom, everything here is gray, stark, monochrome—reminds him of Heaven, in a way, though less of a blinding white, and this is opulent where Heaven is not—and he yearns for his books with a pain that nearly sends him to his knees. His little place of comfort.

But he can learn to love the grays here, and the sunlight that streams through the windows in the green room on the rare days when London is sunny, and given time he might even be able to convince Crowley that the statue has to go.

Aziraphale slides under the covers, close to the far edge of the mattress. Tentatively, he reaches out for Crowley’s hand again. Crowley takes it.

In the morning, he will wake up at the first slivers of daylight through the windows, not used to sleeping for any length of time. Crowley will be wrapped around him like the serpent he used to be, and between him and the blankets it will be slightly too warm to be comfortable, and Aziraphale will think that he doesn’t mind at all. He’ll untangle himself eventually, leaving Crowley to sleep (and sleep, and sleep) and miracle some breakfast from the empty cupboards along with two cups of tea. They'll sit on the same side of the table and talk about their plans, and what Agnes might have meant. Come late morning, he’ll look out the window and see the Bentley as though it was new, and he’ll rush to his storefront to find it untouched. He and Crowley will go to the park to feed the ducks, sitting side by side on a bench together in the light of day, fingers interlaced. They'll face down Heaven and Hell one last time, and the joy of the world, and all its discoveries yet to be made, will be theirs for the taking.

But the morning has yet to come, for several hours yet. Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes.

For all he is unused to sleeping, he falls into it between exhale and inhale, as easy as flying ever was.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you all for reading !!
> 
> for your regularly unscheduled fanfic author content, come find me on tumblr @floraobsidian


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